


Blizzard

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Multi, Stubbornness, domestic argument, hints at sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the fifth ring, he was just about to hang up and declare that this was a terrible plan when a familiar voice picked up with a sharp, “<i>What do you want</i>?” </p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras started carefully, running a hand through his hair, “I forgive you for being an asshole.” </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Click. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blizzard

**Author's Note:**

> Happens after _Wedding_ and _The BOOnapartist_

“What was that?” Jehan choked through a gasp, stilling his rhythm on top of Courfeyrac and looking toward their bedroom door with wide-eyes. Courfeyrac was still buried inside of him, conflicted about being terrified about the giant bang that just sounded from their front room and frustrated that he was _so close_ when it happened. Jehan was off of his lover in a flash, stark nude and still flushed all over as he snatched the baseball bat he kept under the bed and quietly made his way out.

He had expected a robber, or a crack addict, or maybe a rabid animal who had sniffed its way in off the streets. He did not, however, expect to see Grantaire sitting on the couch scowling, their spare key tossed carelessly on the table. The intruder glanced up and gagged in shock, slapping his hands over his eyes and hissing, “Jesus, Prouvaire!”

“Thank god it’s just you!” Jehan sighed and lowered the bat, not moving to cover himself up. He glowered. “What’re you doing here? How’d you get in? Have you any notion what time it is?”

“Long story,” Grantaire began with a humorless snort. “You showed me that you kept your spare buried in your purple potted flower last Easter when I let your cat out while you were at your parents. And, considering your lack of attire... it’s Courfeyrac’s dick o’clock.”

“It’s midnight. What else do people in a committed relationship do at midnight?!” Jehan sighed exasperatedly, his skin blushing to bright red.

“Apparently fighting with their pigheaded boyfriends,” Grantaire grumbled.

Jehan’s heart slowed to a normal tempo and he gave an affable sigh. Of course he and Enjolras had fought. He approached the couch and snatched the blanket from behind Grantaire, wrapping it around his slim waist and sitting next to him with a small plop. He placed a comforting hand on his friends’ arm just as Courfeyrac stumbled out of the bedroom, holding one of his favorite fedoras over his crotch.

“R?!” Courfeyrac roared. “Why did you break into my house at 12am when everyone on this side of the Seine _knows_ we’re _busy_?”

“I had nowhere else to go.” Grantaire sniffled pathetically and Jehan frowned further. Courfeyrac wasn’t buying it.

“You had plenty of places to go. Joly and ‘Ferre’s. Bahorel’s. Feuilly’s. ‘Ponine’s. Christ, Grantaire...”

There was a long pause before Grantaire whispered, “Jehan knows how to handle these things better than anyone else. And you guys have the good vodka.”

Jehan hummed sympathetically and pecked Grantaire’s cheek before realizing that his current state was no good for a _let’s fix Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship_ session. He held onto the blanket tightly as he moved towards his boyfriend, still standing with the fedora at his middle, and replied in a soft voice, “We’ll get dressed. You know where the vodka is.”

Grantaire nodded, no longer looking at either of them, then moved to the kitchen, and Jehan led a still disgruntled Courfeyrac back to his bedroom. Once they were out of earshot (and eyesight), Courfeyrac dropped the hat and let out a childish whine. “We were in the _middle_ of something.”

Jehan, now pulling an oversized sweater and sweatpants onto his body, gave the man a pointed look that silenced any vocal disagreements about Grantaire’s presence, and Courfeyrac kept his mouth in a tight line as he dressed in silence. When both were decent enough, Jehan wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and kissed his mouth tenderly. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

Courfeyrac smiled into the embrace, the tense lines of his shoulders gone, and returned the kiss. He knew that Grantaire and Enjolras, with all their hard headed tendencies and occasional inabilities to articulate emotions properly, experienced the most disputes between one another. It bothered them all to see their two friends at each other’s throats when worst came to worst. By the looks of things, it may take them all of their good liquor to get through the mess created this time.

When the pair returned to the living room, they found their distraught friend drinking straight from a bottle of vodka and glaring determinedly at his phone, as if staring at it hard enough would cause it to burst into flames. Jehan took his place back at Grantaire’s side while Courfeyrac sprawled out on the recliner, and the artist looked up, the alcohol already working to cloud up whatever emotions were twisting their way inside of him.

“Is Enjolras at your guy’s apartment?” Courfeyrac asked, his head hanging a bit off the side of the chair, and Grantaire shook his head.

“When I left him, he had accidently tripped while we both fought to get to the door first.” The dark haired man stared up at the ceiling with a bitter smile. “I think his nose was bleeding.”

“Christ,” Courfeyrac muttered and he pressed a palm to one of his eyes, a headache already forming behind them.

It was going to be a severely long night.

Jehan was just drifting off to the repetitive motion of rubbing circles between Grantaire’s shoulders when his phone buzzed violently. He stood and excused himself before going into their bedroom to answer. On the other end of the line was Combeferre.

“How’s Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, his voice sounding guarded but strained.

“A little better,” Jehan sighed, “but not much. Is Enj over at yours?”

“Yes, he is. Got here not too long ago. I can’t get out of him what the fight was about. All he’ll say is that Grantaire did not hit him, that he hit his nose on the edge of the coffee table in a struggle to get to the door first to rush to your place.”

Jehan winced. “I’m sorry. Don’t be offended. I’m usually the one everyone goes to to clean up these kinds of emotional messes.”

“I’m not offended,” Combeferre assured him. “Things are just a bit awkward. He caught us... at a bad time.”

“Us too.” Jehan covered his mouth and tried not to chuckle.

“Joly’s making tea but he’s obviously grumpy. I just don’t know what to do with him.”

“Don’t push,” Jehan said. “Just let him tell you when he’s ready. They’re both upset, and it could take a while.”

“Thanks,” Combeferre breathed out heavily. “I’ll call you in the morning if anything changes.”

“Same. Goodnight, ‘Ferre.” Jehan hung up and stood, making his way back into the living room where Grantaire was half unconscious and balancing the vodka on his nose. His slender figure was now lounged across the cushions. Courfeyrac was staring at the wall sleepily, his eyes crossing a bit.

“Let’s all get some sleep,” Jehan suggested, pulling Courfeyrac up and pushing him in the direction of the bedroom. He knew that no solution would come if they all weren’t in a clear frame of mind. “Is the couch okay for you, R?”

“Perfectly perfect,” he groaned, closing the vodka bottle and tossing it onto the carpet carelessly. Jehan hoped he didn’t try and crawl into bed with them at any point. He loved his friend but not that much.

After telling Grantaire goodnight, Jehan began drowsily pulling away his clothes all the way to th bedroom. Courfeyrac, the top his of head barely visible in the mounds of covers, was already breathing evenly, the kind of breathing he does when he is on the very edge of sleep. Jehan smiled fondly and crawled into bed with his lover who immediately drew his arms around the smaller man’s frame. Jehan tucked his nose against his neck.

“We’ll sort this out in the morning.” Courfeyrac’s voice was thick with exhaustion. “And, if all else fails, we toss both of their asses out in the cold to figure it out themselves.”

Jehan snorted and murmured in agreement before drifting to sleep.

 

Ten minutes away, Enjolras was still holding a nearly blood dampened paper towel to his nose and scowling. Combeferre, his glasses removed, was rubbing the bridge of his nose calmly while Joly prepared more tea in the kitchen. Before the man had knocked furiously on their door, the couple has been pressed into couch, slowly undressing each other between breathless, eager kisses. The interruption had nearly sent Joly into cardiac arrest, and Combeferre was thankful that they were at least half-way dressed when he threw open their apartment door with mild aggravation.

Now their couch was occupied by a very displeased Enjolras who, if he didn’t start pinching his nose in the position that Joly had told him, would eventually bleed out all over their hardwood floor.

Combeferre let out a heavy exhale and pushed himself from the counter that he was leaning on and to the couch. Enjolras only briefly lifted his eyes when the other knocked his hands out the way and squeezed his nostrils shut, cutting off the blood flow.

“You’re not wearing gloves,” Enjolras observed in a slightly muffled voice, and Combeferre nodded.

“I trust that you have no sort of spreadable diseases.” Combeferre shifted slightly for a more comfortable position. “Plus, if you bleed onto our couch, Joly will burn it. I like this couch.”

Enjolras mumbled in slight acknowledgement and shut his eyes until Combeferre noticed that the bleeding had stopped. This, Combeferre thought fondly, was not the first time he had squeezed Enjolras’s nose shut to stop blood flow. His rambunctious best friend had more than his fair share of fist fights and violent rallies under his belt from their more turbulent teenage years.

When Joly returned with tea, he looked mortified that his husband was handling Enjolras without gloves, but he said nothing.

If there were any unwritten rules in their marriage, most of them had to do with sanitary measures and keeping things doctorly clean. Wordlessly, he sat the tea down onto the coffee table and turned to fetch a clean towel. He returned and tugged the soiled one from Enjolras, replacing it, before disappearing into the laundry room. Combeferre could hear him washing his hand for a five solid minutes, and he returned shortly after to take a place on a nearby chair.

Enjolras looked up at both of them and sighed.

“Thank you,” he muttered awkwardly, shifting his legs and crossing one over the other. Combeferre smiled and nodded.

“You’re my best friend. I wasn’t going to leave you out in the cold. It’s starting to snow out there.”

These were Combeferre’s famous last words before they all separated for bed. By morning, Paris had closed down in a panic with almost a foot of snow on the streets. For a city with rain constantly throughout the year, snow was not something generally endured, especially not blizzards.

Jehan wanted to cry when he awoke to blankets of white covering every surface outside. He loved the snow. He loved gazing at it and writing about it and smelling it, cold and clean on the streets. He knew, however, that this meant Grantaire was all but stranded at theirs, and Enjolras was stranded at Joly and Combeferre’s.

This was turning into a much bigger ordeal than he had hoped.

Grantaire refused to discuss their fight and, instead, decided that he was going to shovel their front porch for them, clad in nothing but slippers and a robe. Courfeyrac watched from the kitchen window, sipping coffee and amused, while his cell phone recorded everything. Jehan swatted him with the tea cozy and practically drug Grantaire back inside. His toes had almost taken on an impressive blue color.

At Joly and Combeferre’s, Enjolras was hunched over a bowl of hot cereal with a grimace that he seemed to have went to bed with, slept with, and awoke with. On the couch, Joly remained curled up next to Combeferre, his body radiating a warmth that Joly only dreamed of possessing in a time like this. The other man sipped his tea and read the newspaper. The room, their entire apartment had become an atmosphere of severely tense silence so the television remained off; no one said a word.

Just as Enjolras was washing his bowl, harshly and without any care despite the fact that it was porcelain, Joly sat up with a sudden inspiration. Though he was generally quiet during moments like these, he could not assert the same patience as his husband, and he certainly could not sit around waiting for a solution to fall from the sky.

Their normal, lazy morning sex has been interrupted when Enjolras knocked on their bedroom door and asked if he could borrow something of Combeferre’s so that he could take a shower. That was Joly’s last straw.

“Enjolras,” Joly began carefully, jostling both Combeferre and the man in question from their dazed silence. Combeferre lowered the newspaper as Enjolras raised an eyebrow, waiting. “I think you should call Grantaire.”

Enjolras crossed his arms. “And why would I do something like that?”

“ _Because_ if you both sit around and...” He deliberated his word choice, trying desperately not to spit out act like _pouty children_ , and sighed, “ _allow_ these feelings to build up inside of you, it’s going to make the situation even worse.”

Combeferre nodded a bit in agreement, and Enjolras contemplated briefly before deflating like a balloon whose air had been let out.

“Fine, I’ll call him.”

The ruffled blond grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts briefly, pulling himself onto one of the kitchen stools. Grantaire’s name stared back at him, angry and bold, and he filled his lungs with air as his thumb pressed send. Then, he waited.

By the fifth ring, he was just about to hang up and declare that this was a terrible plan when a familiar voice picked up with a sharp, “ _What do you want_?”

Joly gave Enjolras an encouraging smile to continue.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started carefully, running a hand through his hair, “I forgive you for being an asshole.”

 _Click_.

Joly stared at him, unable to formulate a response, and Combeferre pressed his fingertips to his forehead, defeated, and muttered, “Fucking hell..”

Enjolras slammed his phone on the hard surface. “Well, he hung up.”

“Of course he did!” Joly squeaked, his voice sheer and frustrated like a forgotten kettle. “You can’t start an apology like that!”

“Who said anything about _me_ apologizing?” Enjolras huffed, obstinate.

Joly just gaped at him before shaking his head. “You, Enjolras, are impossible.” And he left to go into the bedroom.

Combeferre frowned after his husband then peeked over his glasses at his best friend who looked, unsurprisingly, like a kicked kitten.

“The only way to solve things is to talk them out,” he said simply, folding the newspaper. “without hurling insults or being stubborn. You love Grantaire, and he loves you. You worked this out ages ago when you both finally came to terms with it, and it was the best for both of you. And you are both extremely stubborn,” He held his hand up when Enjolras’s mouth snapped with a prepared rebuttal, but it snapped shut just as fast. “But you do love each other. That’s not going to change so you might as well make an effort.”

Enjolras’s peered at Combeferre with furrowed eyebrows for what seemed like an eternity (but really it was only mere seconds) before huffing.

“You’re right, but I think I’ve just made things worse.”

“Probably, but I’m sure he misses you and wants to fix things as well. If you phrase things correctly, I’m positive he’ll listen.”

He knew his friend was valid, and fighting with Combeferre (and his logic) was like trying to knock down a concrete wall with your fist. He remained silent for a while before standing.

“I’m going over there.”

“No you’re not.” Combeferre almost laughed, eyes glinting from behind his spectacles. “You’ll freeze to death. No taxis are running, and it’s a ten minute walk to the métro.”

“Well I can’t call again. He won’t pick up.”

Combeferre considered, and shook his head. “No. I don’t want you catching pneumonia and dying.”

Enjolras grumbled beneath his breath and laid his head down on the counter, letting out an exasperated noise. Combeferre clapped his shoulder, shaking it a little. “You guys will work it out.”

He wished that he shared his friends sureness.

 

*

“Mother _fucker_!”

Jehan let out a wounded noise as Grantaire threw his phone across the room, and the device landed on the carpeted floor with a bounce then thud. Courfeyrac, who had briefly left the room, now surveyed the scene with wide, confused eyes.

“Grantaire, what in the he-”

“He called me! That _jackass_ called me.”

Jehan bit at his bottom lip as Courfeyrac stepped closer to Grantaire cautiously. The dark haired man’s eyes were blazing, and his knuckles were a dangerous white color from where he had them clenched. “What... did he say?”

“ _I forgive you for being an asshole_ ,” Grantaire mimicked Enjolras’s tone with complete accuracy. “He forgives _me_?”

Courfeyrac let out an irritated noise and mumbled a quiet ‘goddamn’ beneath his breath. Jehan, who had picked up Grantaire’s surprisingly-still-in-tacked cell phone, held the black object in his hand. And, with a sudden fierceness, he thrusted it at Grantaire.

“Call him back.”

Grantaire’s mouth parted, eyebrows furrowing together. “Like hell I am!”

“For fuck sakes, R,” Jehan grumbled, shaking his head. “You guys _have_ to talk this out. You are in love! We all know how much you care for one another. Don’t let this ruin all of that.”

Grantaire inhaled sharply through his nose and looked up at Courfeyrac then Jehan, both waiting. When neither one wavered, Grantaire shook his head, his wild curls flinging angrily.

“When he calls back to apologize then I’ll speak to him.” He slipped past them and went into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and causing it to rattle in its frame.

Courfeyrac pulled Jehan to him, burying his face into his poet’s sweet smelling hair. “Time for plan B, flower. I’m calling ‘Ferre and their asses are going out on the streets.”

Jehan melted a little in the embrace, eyes closing. “There’s a blizzard outside.” Courfeyrac shrugged, and Jehan pulled from his arms carefully. “Though, I suppose we should call ‘Ferre to see the damage on their end.”

Courfeyrac kissed his forehead briefly and grabbed his cell phone, dialing Combeferre’s number at an impossibly fast speed.

Combeferre answered exasperatedly, “Courf, something has to be done.”

“Agreed,” Courfeyrac chuckled, sneaking a kiss into Jehan’s hair, “Only, we were wondering how such a feat is to be done with a foot of snow on the ground.”

“Well, we could wait until it cleared and head over. Does that sound good Enj-... Enjolras? I... he’s gone.” Combeferre opened the front door and saw no Enjolras, only footprints leading down the street. “I think he’s going over. In the snow. With no practical clothes.”

Courfeyrac sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I guess we’ll be calling you when he contracts some awful disease.”

Courfeyrac had not noticed Grantaire eavesdropping, and he certainly did not see the color blanch from his face when he realized Enjolras was now trudging through the snow for him. All the anger seemed to vanish from his body and, with a thud and a few stumbles, he was out the door and sprinting, still clad in only a robe, his boxers, and slippers. Courfeyrac turned just in time to see him hurl himself out the door.

“Well,” he quipped, “this should be interesting.”

Twenty-seven minutes passed before Grantaire and Enjolras burst through Jehan and Courfeyrac’s door, shivering but looking satisfied. Their lips were swollen red and bruised, and their hands remained intertwined together. Jehan smiled, at first, when he saw them, and then he rushed to get warm blankets and hot tea.

As they warmed up their chilled skin, Courfeyrac took a seat in front of them and stared them down like a suspicious father. “So... will you tell me what this was all about? Why we had to bear witness to the lamest version of The Notebook ever?”

Enjolras swallowed and looked down at where his hand was tangled with Grantaire’s. Grantaire, suddenly, found a painting hanging on their wall very interesting. Courfeyrac cleared his throat loudly which made both of them jump. Finally, Enjolras groaned.

“He forgot to clean out the coffee grinds,” he mumbled, his cheeks burning, “and it escalated.”

“Hurtful things were said.” Grantaire nodded.

Courfeyrac looked at his feet, a small smile on his lips and eyes squinted in deep thought. The silence seemed to hang heavy in the air, and the couple shifted uncertain.Then, with a sadistic gleam, he whispered, “I’ll give you two a five second head start.”

The neighbors would discuss the ensuing chase/snowball battle for many years to come.

**Author's Note:**

> We are planning on posting a series of vignettes which peek into the life of Jehan and Courfeyrac (mainly) with the rest of the boys thrown into the mix. They will consist of little snippets about various things that tickle our fancy!
> 
> Along with reading our series, feel free to follow both of us on Tumblr:
> 
> Rachel: beaumarbre.tumblr.com  
> Ashley: billypronto.tumblr.com


End file.
